The
audience is applauding. Performers stand four abreast. They bow. They leave in
pairs—stage left, stage right. Applause continues. Ben and Janie reenter right...
bow again...
depart. Paul and Gillian reenter left; the audience comes to its feet.
Cheers break out, bravoes. The pair bows jointly—cheers persistent. Paul takes
one step backward—cheers redouble. Gillian shrinks. Her nerve ends frayed,
she feels besieged by the over-long ovation. Control, for which she has
fought all night, is about to lapse; she shakes. With all her might, she
wants to flee this wall of adulation that entraps her like a fortress,
that insists she stay... and stay... acknowledge praise she fears is
underserved.

Suddenly a hand takes hers;
Paul squeezes, lends support, leads her to the wings, where she collapses.

"... Except to sick people. Like men. Don't you agree, Laura, that men are sick, sick
people?"

She crosses to the fallen sash; once
red, it now is white. Her once-white dress is red, in a curious reversal. The set has also
shifted from its achromatic scheme to colors natural—realistic, in effect.

LAURA
(portrayed by a woman resembling Michelle)

"Monica, it's time you stopped. We've all had quite enough."

Monica whirls around (prepared to
issue her rebuttal), but falters. Where is Janie? Who's this stand-in?
How, in hell, does she know her lines? Recovering, she continues.

Gillian (looking wild,
demented) steals a
glance around her, everything in its place (yet wrong), the cast (miscast
yet functioning). Even Morgan knows his part; he brackets Monica's
shoulders. She (according to the script) must wrestle free—which she attempts, but he holds fast. How
come? She tries again, more frantically (cannot shake him).

"Let go, you idiot!"

Gillian thrashes,
strikes with both her fists. Ben
grabs one arm; Paul grabs the other; Morgan reels from the impact.

Wits restored, the actress
scans her dressing room's crammed-in crew: David, Janie, Paul and Ben. The
last two maintain custody. Gillian, scowling left to right, demands they
turn her loose. Up she rebounds. "Morgan!" Rushing forward, she
embraces him, lays her cheek against his
chest and hugs without restraint, grateful for his presence, if confused by
his reserve. Glancing up, she catches sight of his damaged lip.

"You're
bleeding!" At first, she tries to disavow... though nonplussed stares
indict her."Did I do that?... I
guess, I must have done. I'm awfully sorry! Will someone get a
washcloth, please?"

"I'm fine. Just
failed to duck."

Morgan gently guides her to a
chair. She sits down guiltily, her recollection foggy, her professional pride impugned; above
all else, an actress keeps control.